


Succession

by esuterutomoru



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Atmospheric, Blood, Creampie, Cunnilingus, F/M, I'm way too late with this, Mildly Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Vague, Voodoo, deliberately vague ending, don't stone me, please comment and tell me I'm not crazy, symbolic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 16:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14336478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esuterutomoru/pseuds/esuterutomoru
Summary: His body was burned on the pyre, but his spirit lingers with one final desire. She allows, and takes what she wants, too. Vol'jin/Sylvanas.





	Succession

**Succession**

 

Nothing is changed in the warchief’s quarters after his death. His blood is a dry, dark spot on the furs on his seat. Sylvanas touches the patch of black crust and feels nothing. It doesn’t stick to her, it doesn’t smear. There is no smell to it anymore, not even to her heightened senses. It is empty, like the shadows in the corners.

Maybe it is better this way. Vol’jin has not been made for war. He hasn’t been a pacifist like Baine, true. A shadow hunter, he has been no stranger to murder or battles, but he hasn’t been cut out for mass slaughter either. Especially not after his time in Pandaria. Meeting the Pandaren has shaped him, the spirituality of the place has smoothed out his jagged edges, the weeks spent recuperating has given him time to contemplate. From a cunning fighter he has grown to be a careful thinker, a strategist and a charismatic leader. He has been a great warchief to them.

It has all been just a matter of timing. He’s come to rule the Horde at the wrong time. With the Legion breathing down their throats, there is no time for his thoughtful silences and drawn-out discussions.

It is time for death, pure and simple.

It is time for her.

His seat - throne is a pretentious word, she thinks, and so fucking _Alliance_ \- swallows her when she sinks down in it, but the furs are cushioning, gentle. There is a welcome embrace to that big space. For a moment she almost feels sentimental that she will have to get rid of it. Her people cannot ever perceive her as small and feeble after all, even if it is mere optical illusion.

The brazier has been relit, but as ever, the flames’ comforting heat cannot touch her, and the warm glow of it only paints her pallid face sickly green and yellow. She closes her eyes to its unkind glare of life.

It has been a long, long day. The smell of the pyre is gone from her senses, but the roar of the… _her_ Horde is not. She hopes the Legion has heard their warcry all the way to their wretched half-world. She hopes they have known fear then.

If they haven’t, they will soon enough when the Horde boils over the Broken Isles in tens of thousands, and teaches all who would oppose them their merciless dirge.

The shadows coil and rise, reaching forward from the corner to touch her edges. She is up from the large seat in a moment, back straight, hand on her dagger. The shape in the darkness moves, lumbering, heavy and huge, deliberate.

“Da mantle of command be lookin’ good on ya, Windrunner…”

When Vol’jin comes forward and his tusks are still full, she knows she is dreaming. She lets it happen. Sleep doesn’t come to her as it does to the living; there is no respite in the secluded corners of her mind, only visions. She can dismiss them if she wishes, but there is no need to. Seeing those clever golden eyes gaze at her again, measuring, distrustful, brilliant with reflected sparks, fills her with a sense of longing. To say she has missed the troll would be close enough to the truth, so close that it is foolish and she berates herself for it.

There is no love lost between them. So then why, when he comes close to touch her hand and move it from the hilt of her weapon, does she allow it, does she revel in the make-belief warmth of his flesh?

“Dere be no need for dat…” He says, hushed, soft. His presence, even as a spirit, or a figment of her imagination, fills the room, but does not oppress her. He is great, but he allows others to reach for the same greatness. He fears no successor, fears no rival. What a fool, and how she has laughed at him to mask admiration.

“You left it to me in a trying time,” she says, dropping her hand from his touch. Or does she simply pass through him? She doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. “That mantle of yours.”

Vol’jin shakes his head, pushing the hood from her hair. She could have cut him for it; she would have, were they not in this lingering world between sleep and awake. Or were they not anywhere at all. Depends on perspective. She can afford not to think too much on it.

“No. I never be da leader… da Horde be needin’ someone greater, someone like Thrall… it be temporary, my command… yours can be da future. Da true future. Make good of it, Windrunner…”

His voice is sweet, and she lets him talk. Somehow, there is a finality in it all. As strong as his spirit is, this is the last anyone will hear of him, for a long while at least. And he has chosen this final opportunity to speak to her. She respects that.

Or, he is a mere figment of her imagination. In which case, she allows herself to enjoy the way his rough fingers tangle in her pale gold hair. He meets her gaze, and abruptly, his hand stills.

The brazier crackles.

“...in my final hour, when I be lookin’ at ya…” He goes on, his fingertips, three of them and rough as tree bark, running down the soft line of her chin. “...I be thinkin’, could Death be wearin’ a more beautiful face…?”

She opens her mouth in a sneer, ready to rebuke him, to prove him wrong. She may have retained some of her lovely looks, but oh, she is ugly inside. Rotten, wicked.

“Cold as ice…” He says, pressing ahead, not letting her interrupt. His hand curls around her neck, draws her closer. He grips her hip, and she feels his powerful grasp even through her armor. The shiver that courses through her is a surprise, and yet not. “Graceful, without mercy… no remorse. No lookin’ back. Never faltering. A woman that many be coveting but none can touch…”

She grasps both his wrists and pries, her black lips curling down, teeth bared. If this is going where she suspects, she doesn’t want it. It won’t work anyways, spirit or imagination. Her body knows its limitations all too well. Not even a vivid dream can convince her of something so ludicrous.

“You’ll be sorely disappointed, warchief.” She mocks, pushing his hands off of herself finally. His response is a grin, full of teeth and mischief and soul, as he grabs her by her hips in both hands and hoists her up, legs about his waist.

“I be disagreein’, Windrunner,” he says, hands on her thighs, her face trapped between his great tusks.

Again, unafraid. His damned eyes smoldering, so intelligent, so alive. His touch so sure, his grasp secure, his bulk strong, massive. She hates him, and herself, but lunges forward with her arms around his neck, to bite into his lower lip, all teeth and no romance.

“I don’t get wet, you fool,” she hisses, his blood on her mouth, his growl between her teeth.

“I can help with dat,” he whispers, rising to his full, stunning height with her weight easy in his powerful arms. He puts her on his great seat, bending down, mouth on hers, scraping, slick tongue in her mouth. She bites and spits and fights, claws and hisses and tears at his shock of bright red hair, and still he kisses her, holds her firm, and hums his pleasure.

Bits and pieces, her armor is falling to the floor. Slowly but surely. Her hands on his shoulders, so small, laughably so. His hands on her hips, on her ass, on her thighs, kneading the flesh like she can still respond, like she can grow warm and pliant under his enticing touch. Nothing of the sort happens. It isn’t arousal that drives her, there is no wetness, no tingling heat that pushes all conscious thought aside.

There is only desperation, and an unspoken need to cling to a sweet lie of life. There is only him, huge and overpowering and still gentle in his firmness, and her, stone cold and unyielding, death herself come alive, all he will ever have now. It is good. It is right.

She is naked beneath him, dark lips snarling, wet with his spit, her fair hair tangled, blood on her chin. Her body a dead beauty, soft breasts and pale nipples, shapely legs thrown open, a tuft of pale hair between her thighs, dry, unaffected. He kneels to her, hoists her thighs over his tusks, and puts his mouth to her death-kissed folds.

His tongue dances on her clit, smears his saliva on her lips, seeks out her depths with slow, hungry thrusts, and she takes it without a word, unfeeling. Still, her fingers clutch at his hair, red as blood, red as life, and yanks him ever closer, tighter against her lap. There is no pleasure, but there is smug, selfish want, and she can delight in his worship, even if she cannot enjoy it.

Oh, and worship he does, as though this is all he has ever desired. His tongue scrapes her, tickles and circles, lavishes every small part of her in attention, exploring. She is a feast to him, and he moans his pleasure into her flesh unashamed. He nuzzles and nibbles, sucks on her folds, on her clit, licks deep into her, and deeper still when she pulls on his head. The slurping and suckling sounds almost disgusting, like a slobbering, starved beast mangling its prey. It is sickening, beautiful to her.

When he pulls away, letting her legs drop again, he doesn’t wipe his mouth. He bends to kiss her taste into her mouth, and she arches to reach him first, tongue meeting his, lips bruising on his teeth, a faint taste of woman lost between them.

Her tongue feels vaguely numb when they pull apart, and her mouth hangs open, lewd, glistening, almost hungry. She glances down to see what he’s done, how he has ravaged her. She’s slick all over, soft tuft of hair tousled and wet, her dead skin glowing in the faint firelight. It’s how it should be, for him.

“I ain’t done with ya, banshee,” Vol’jin grunts, heat in his voice, heat that sears her almost, heat that makes her look him in the eyes.

He straightens, all muscle, massive, glorious. She bucks when he grabs her hips and hoists her, hissing, bracing herself on her elbows. He pushes his tenting loincloth out of the way, shows his proud manhood to her without hesitation. It should feel humiliating, perhaps, she’s but a doll in his hands, but here, with his heavy, hardened cock touching her licked-open pussy, she doesn’t care about appearances anymore. She wants this, even if it amounts to nothing.

“You’d better not be, troll,” she responds through her clamped teeth, legs flexing against his sides, curling, grabbing him. She tugs, feels him slide across her, his length resting on her belly, and she sees just how far he’ll reach inside.

Somehow, she’s alive with need.

“Fuck me,” she growls, crude, unabashed, like she had never been in life. She knows he will, and maybe she’ll even feel it.

Without saying another word, Vol’jin shifts back, grips his cock in one hand, and leads it to her entrance. He rubs her, soils her spit-wettened folds with his own fluids, then gives a firm thrust, and another, and a third, forcing all of his massive length inside with a low, unforgiving growl.

And how cruel it had been of Arthas, that he had left her with but one sensation she’s still receptive of. But at least, there is something.

She grunts, body stiffening against the pain as Vol’jin rips her open, but she hangs on, stubborn, spiteful, glaring when he leans over her, seething through her teeth. He’s so _huge_ . She feels like bursting, feels full, stuffed, strange and almost sick, and she feels _good._ It’s not pleasure, it never will be, but it’s there, unmistakeable, real for now even if it’s all a foolish farce. She clings to him with her strong legs, pulls him until his heavy sack is smothered against her ass, and she breathes, vicious, taunting.

“Haahhhh…” She leaves all her weight on one arm, and reaches out with the other, grabbing a fistful of blood red hair. Vol’jin rears and bucks and thrusts deeper still, powerful like a stallion, and he growls and seethes and huffs like a beast. She gasps in response, lashes drooping but still stubbornly open to watch, and she feels a rhythm build, unforgiving, hard, dominating.

It’s good, so _good_.

“Fuck me,” she whispers again, desperate almost, and disbelieving. She doesn’t want it to end. She’s greedy, she’s wanton, so she spurs him for more, “Fuck me…!”

He does, hard enough to rock her in his grip, hard enough that their bodies are slapping together in a raw, feral dance, hard enough that it breaks her inside and draws her blood like she’s a _virgin_.

It’s madness. Her body is open, her throat, her hole, her dead womb, waiting for him, for his pleasure, for his seed. It’s the closest to life she’s been since her first death.

When he pulls from her she wails, a scream to rattle the walls around, a yowl that’s neither human nor animal, but something greater, more terrible. She fights the grip on her legs when he pulls them open, away from his hips, and she claws and kicks and growls, but does no damage.

Then, he turns her around and her knees hit the ground. She glares back over her shoulder, and hisses. He shoves her forward, against the seat, grabs her hips and mounts her like a savage. His cock tears her open, his sack slaps against her thighs and she struggles for balance, gasping, shaking with blissful pain.

She’s fucked without regard, and she lets it happen, legs thrown open, trembling, hands bunching into the furs draped across the carved seat beneath her. She cannot thrust back, she cannot throw him off, and it’s what she’s wanted, even more. He’s grand, he’s majestic, he’s beastly and tyrannic, and still, still, he takes only as much as he gives.

There’s never any pleasure in her ravaged insides, but there is that beautiful agony, a pain that she can welcome, that her depraved body translates into mad delight. It’s good. It’s _so good_. She’s coming. Against all logic, against all law of nature, of magic, she is coming, screaming for him, dead muscles coiled, taut, shuddering in orgasmic awe.

And still, he pounds her, pinning her beneath his great weight, his lap slapping her ass, his massive cock ruining her pussy beyond healing. She will be branded by this. She will be torn open, fucked, his woman, his consort, his successor.

He shoves in balls deep when he comes, bucking against her with hard, guttural moans of pleasure, uninhibited, loud, proud of his conquest. His seed is thick, hot and plentiful, splashing inside her, stinging her open wounds, filling her womb. She sighs for it, strains back to keep him in deeper, longer, even as he pulls away.

The wetness between her legs is disgusting. The pain lingers, humming through her, will not yield and subside. Vol’jin passes a hand beneath her, across her stomach, and murmurs tantalizing nonsense into the languid air around them. It’s soothing, sweet. She closes her eyes for it, and just _feels_. 

“...warchief…” She breathes, trembling, lulled into a sweet lie of fatigue, close to dreams that would never come to her.

“No.”

He brings her into his arms, raises her high like a queen, then seats her. Her legs slide apart, amorous, inviting. Blood and come trickle from her hole, staining her folds. A profane goddess of lust she is, torturous, vengeful. She relishes his wandering eyes on her used, rotten flesh.

He kneels to her, head bent, tusks touching the floor. She watches through lashes faltering, falling. He takes one of her feet, dainty and dead cold in his hands, and brings it to his mouth. He kisses the top of it, eyes shut, reverent.

“Dat be you now, Windrunner.”

His murmur is a whisper of air, then no more.

Sylvanas stirs, lashes fluttering open. The shadows in the corners are silent and empty. There is nothing but death around, an old companion, her best-known friend.

But her womb throbs, alive.


End file.
